Tavo runs into Praety in the laundry room.
Location: Laundry Room, Cutter //Vanguard//
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 1015
Rothschild has found a quiet moment in the laundry room, seated on the deck in front of the dryer as it spins and tosses about khaki clothes with the smallest hints of white here and there. She is sitting cross-legged, taking up as little space as she can as people cross past her to the other machines. She is reading a book -- an old paperback with beat up corners and spine -- and looks quite involved as she turns the next page, eyes immediately moving to the top as she continues to read.
Tavo takes up a lot of space. It's not intentional -- in fact, he habitually curls his shoulders in to take up less -- but it's really just a fact of life. He has a mesh bag of clothes over his left shoulder as he moves into the laundry room, carrying it a little awkwardly. Setting the bag down on one washer, he opens the next, respecting the privacy of the other Marine until he realizes that he's forgotten his own detergent, and he rolls his eyes, grunting disappointment at himself. He steps between her and her washer, back to the machines, grumbling, "Excuse me."
Rothschild looks up, and up a bit more, and she blinks at the looming Marine over her. She closes her book after dog-earring the page. It takes her several mustering moments not to assume this is an autograph opportunity, as only the excited Private dared to even suggest such an exchange, and even then he was frankly disappointed by her refusal. "Sorry, am I in the way?" Her Leonese accent is soft, warm, and quite precise -- a noble Leonese is not that far from a Caprican in terms of cant.
Tavo gestures slightly toward the detergent machine on the far wall, "Forgot mine." He frowns slightly as he studies the woman's features, something tickling at the back of his brain, but he shakes his head, squeezing himself up against the driers opposite her to slip past. He gets a small packet from the machine, then comes back, smiling apologetically for a moment. Once he's past the second time, he adds, "Did you play pyramid in school? You look familiar." At least it's different from the probably near-constant, 'Are you new on the ship? Are you really the Praetorian?'
"Oh." Rothschild watches him pass and then looks to be resuming her book, but the question and follow-up draws her chin back up and she raises both brows. "Ah, well... most find themselves wondering. I'm missing a few of my signatures... the red lipstick, and properly pinned curls... if you think about it, I'm sure it will come to you." Her smile gains a small quirk at the corner, borderlining on a smirk before she begins to haul herself back to her feet, setting the book on the dryer before she brushes her hands across the ample curve of her hips.
The suggestion causes him to frown in thought, his brows furrowing. The packet of detergent is set down atop the next washer over, and Tavo considers the pieces of information provided -- not that he knows what pinned curls really are. After a minute or so, he grunts as the memory comes to him, "That Cee-Eff recruiting poster, right?" And then he starts putting handfuls of clothes into the washer. "I didn't think that was a real soldier." A hint of amused wonder touches the words, "I thought that was someone they hired and put on a stage." When he tries to peel open the packet of detergent, it pops a bit too forcefully, spraying onto his khaki blouse, and he groans in unsurprised annoyance.
"You're not having the best of days, are you?" Rothschild offers an apologetic smile. "Should be fine if you get it straight away into the wash. That detergent can stain if left to set, which I know sounds quite counter-intuitive." She then leans against the dryer where her clothes continue to spin round and round, and she offers a small shrug of a shoulder. "Afraid so. Plucked up from Leonis after the Cylon attacks, and put to work... first on Leonis and then for the Colonial Forces."
"Today is... about average," at least Tavo has a dry sense of humor about it. He squeezes out the remaining detergent into the washer, sets the packet aside, unbuttons his uniform blouse and strips out of it with a grimace and a hiss of pain. The reason is abundantly clear when the uniform top is off, a tight, wide bandage around his right upper arm. Still, he pulls his rank pins from the collars, balls up the tunic and tosses it in with the others, then shuts and starts the machine before gathering up the detergent packet and heading for the trash, "Sort of surprised you've got the goods on doing laundry," his eyes flicker to her rank insignia, and he finishes, "Sergeant." His eyes drop lower, to her bustline, and then he grimaces, dropping his eyes further, "Whoever decided not to put nametags on uniforms should be spaced. Tavo. Gustavo Delgado."
"And why does that surprise you?" Rothschild didn't catch his rank, but doesn't seem to mind. She instead is offering out a hand when he gives his name. She has a firm grip, even if her hand is quite petite compared to his larger paw. "Eudora Lilium Rothschild, though most call me Praety." Which is her attempt to shake off the formality of the Praetorian. Once the handshake is done, the woman resumes her lean against the dryer, waiting for the answer to her previous question.
The pins go into his pocket, and Tavo quite delicately takes the other Staff Sergeant's hand. He's certainly well-trained in not crushing other hands, not that he really has to worry in this case unless he were trying. The recitation of her name and nickname causes him to chuckle softly, the amused sound the low rumble that his voice is not, "That's why. I would bet that there aren't many people who introduce themselves with three names who know the secrets of laundry, Pretty."
"Well, if you're mother is Eudora Alabastra Rothschild, you want to make a distinction." But Rothschild does grin slightly and offer a shoulder shrug in a silent acceptance to his point. "But, my father always taught me that I should be responsible for my own chores, and that included laundry." The dryer then dings, and she turns to begin to take out her dry clothes out and put them in a heap in the basket. She glances toward the large Marine, sizing him up a bit. "Now, recon or gunner?"
Tavo considers that, nodding his acceptance, "Point." Which would theoretically make it one-to-one, if anyone were keeping score. The question, however, draws an amused chuckle from the big man, who looks down at himself a moment, then back to Rothschild, and raises an eyebrow, "They don't make trees big enough to hide me this side of Scorpia. Gunner, definitely gunner. Out of curiosity, why not guess rifleman?"
"You look like the type the recruiters would have pushed for a gunner position. Riflemen can come in any number of sizes, but you won't find many petite gunners running around. You want the broadness in the shoulders, steadied stance... your size, Mr. Delgado, suggests gunner." She starts the process of taking one piece of clothing out of her basket at a time to fold, and her folds are precise and perfect according to regulation.
Tavo nods to himself when she starts folding her clothes, as if confirming something in his own mind, "You mean I'm a big motherfrakker and look like I can hump a heavy weapon and ammo without complaining." His teeth flash in the midst of a smile. He lets it fade as he studies the woman, noting, "And you seem like the type they push toward the officers' ranks, Sergeant. Too smart for that," there's a wry humor there, "or did you get in trouble before you got put on recruiting posters?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I mean." Rothschild is smiling to herself as she folds her next series of tank tops. She looks up slightly at the observant note from the other Staff Sergeant, and she offers a small nod. "No. I got divorced." She chuckles then. "I had thought of becoming an officer once upon a time... even prepared myself for such a path. But, you know... got married, got frakked, got divorced, enlisted."
"And you would all be wrong. It's a soldier's," not a Marine's, a soldier's "sacred right to complain, even if he can hump the load just fine." Tavo grunts in surprise at the response from the woman, "Really? Getting a divorce is enough to cut you out of the running for officer in the Leonese military?" A frown starts to gather as he considers that, although her description of the sequence of events defuses the frown with a chuckle. He takes in a breath for a rejoinder to something in there, but swallows it, drawing his shoulders in a little unconsciously, "And now you're famous. The face that launched a Marine Corps."
"No, but it is enough for a woman who just wanted a change." Rothschild is a bit less regulation with her underwear, just folding it over once and putting it with her shirts. She does not seem at all modest about it though. Underwear is underwear. She chuckles ruefully at his description of her role in all this. "Yes, but apparently I'm just a hired actor." Her smile is smooth and just a touch haughty before she starts to fold up her duty pants. "And a face that hopefully people will be just as slow as you to recognize. I'm here to fight, same as you." Not that Tavo suggested otherwise, but it sounds like a prickly subject.
Tavo isn't trying to see what sort of underwear the Praetorian of Trenoir wears, no sir. He'll keep watching her as she speaks, rather than what her hands are doing. He grunts his apparent understanding at her response, then winces a little at her call-back to his earlier comment, "Well you could take it as a compliment." The words are a near mumble, and then he rolls his shoulders, wincing a little more and working his right arm gingerly, "I generally expect that all the Marines are here to fight. May not be army-tough, but you all seem the next best thing."
That causes her some pause, and Rothschild gives the Gunner a glance over. "Ah, right... you're an army transfer." She chuckles then, shaking her head as she folds another pair of pants. "You know that toughness is not always predicated on the branch of military you belong to?" Her dark eyes flicker up to him, giving him a pointed look with the slightest lift of a brow. Then she shakes her head, folding up another shirt to add to her pile.
"Of course not. There are soft-feet soldiers, but taking the heel-and-toe express more often than those deathtrap Raptors certainly toughens you up." Tavo grins good-naturedly along with the inter-service bitching, showing that it's at least mostly in good fun. "I'll bite though. What do you say toughness is based on?" This time, he doesn't swallow his comment, his grin spreading wide a moment, "And if you say ovaries, I'll laugh." He hurriedly adds, "Not because women can't be tough. Don't get me wrong. I know plenty of women who can kick my ass." Evidently, he's big enough to admit that.
"That sounds like a perfect to be continued question." Rothschild finishes the last of her laundry, and restacks it all in the basket. She smiles to the larger gunner, head tilted slightly in a cattish angle. "You will have to join me next time to learn the answer." Then she hefts up the basket, hooking it on her generous hip. "It was nice meeting you, Tavo."
Tavo snorts at that, "You just need time to think about it, don't you?" Still, he chuckles and nods, digging a rolled-up sports magazine out of his back pocket -- awkwardly and using his left hand -- and then adds, "Belatedly, welcome aboard, Sergeant. Always good to have another old hand in the unit." Because you tend to expect a Staff Sergeant to have some years in the shit.
Rothschild offer a small, casual salute before she departs with her laundry. "See you next time." Then she is on her way out, and manages not to look at all worried at the idea of her being an old hand.
Gustavo opens the magazine, but even he is not made of stone. He glances up to watch the other Marine depart, appreciating the view before he grunts softly and looks down to the latest article on the pyramid b-leagues.